


Natural Born Sprinter

by Zhie



Series: Bunniverse [24]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:58:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7569757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galadriel seeks advice about her competitive nature from her even more competitive cousin, Fingon.  (Pre-dates the story 'Citius Altius Fortius)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natural Born Sprinter

**Author's Note:**

> I mapped out the dialogue for this on March 29, 2015, and then tossed it into my 'WIP' pile because I was so determined to finish Unforgettable. With the Olympics upcoming (and the 2008 Olympics the reason I started writing Fingon as a gymnast, I felt I should finish this story before the games, because I'm sure I'll be influenced by the Olympics to write more things about these two...)

“Fin! Artie was supposed to be here over an hour ago, but sometimes she forgets.” Aredhel bounded down the stairs as she fixed her hair up in a messy crown of braids. She tapped on the glass doors that separated the foyer from the family room, in case he had not heard her. He was on the floor of the main room, alternating between push-ups, leg lifts, and sit-ups. He lifted his head, but continued to do push-ups as he mouthed the numbers to himself so as not to lose count. “Do you mind telling her when she arrives that we shall need to make other arrangements? Turukáno has an extra ticket to the theatre, and asked if I should like to go.”

“I shall – tell her – if she – arrives.” Fingon bowed his head and concentrated on his training once again.

“Thank you ever so much!” called Aredhel as she left the house, leaving Fingon alone for the rest of the day.

It was a rare spring spent at home. Following an unexpectedly excellent showing at the finals, where he earned himself the highest accolades in the personal all-around, and contributed to a second-place finish for his team, he was traded three times before even stepping on the podium. An injury at practice in his new gym put Fingon on the reserve list, and subsequently he found himself off of the team before he was fully recovered or ever competed for them. Gymnasts were easy to replace; even one so well-known as he. 

General consensus was that no one ever repeated an all-around win, and after an injury, there was little hope to even place in the competition. Many considered him retired. His birthday was two months away; competitive gymnastics had strict rules on eligibility. Fingon had no intention of retiring now, not with the finite career he faced regardless of injury. He had every intention of competing in the finals, with or without a team. Already, there was an anonymous patron – probably his grandfather – willing to pay for a coach, uniforms, transportation, and everything else that was required. Coaches were expensive, especially private ones, and his parents had already supported him in so many ways. He was glad his grandfather – or whomever it was – preferred to be discrete. It offered legitimacy and professionalism – and it made Fingon work harder, just in case it was not his grandfather.

The front door opened and the dog gave one short welcoming bark and ran to greet their guest. Fingon continued to do push-ups until he was certain the visitor was in the room with him.

“She left.” He paused with his arms extended. “Turukáno took her to a play.”

“I know. I met them on the road.”

Fingon settled back on his haunches and reached for a rag to wipe his brow. “And yet you are here.” He readjusted the clip that held his hair, tightly wound on the top of his head. It was slicked back to keep tendrils from falling into his line of vision; no fancy braids or golden threads. 

“Can I not offer greetings to my cousin? Long has it been since I last saw you.”

“Seven months,” he remarked, but long were the years of the trees, and long yet did seven months seem. “How have you fared?” he politely asked as he sat with his back straight and lifted both legs up from the ground, then pushed himself up from the floor to balance on his palms. He had no apparatuses in the house to practice on, but there were some activities he could do in the house to emulate exercises on the floor or, in this case, the rings.

“Well enough. And you? How is your leg?” she asked as she removed her gloves.

“It works again,” was all he offered before he changed positions and gracefully moved into a handstand.

“Íri told me you were dropped from your team?”

“I lost my sponsors, too,” Fingon added. “All I have is a patron, but at least that allows me a coach, and a chance to compete independently at the final competition.” He switched back to the first position, shoulders squared, legs out. “The glory never lasts long, or so they say. Another team should pick me up before long, provided I do well at the finals.”

“How long do you think that will take?”

“A month or two after the finals, I guess. I hope less, but I need to be in form to compete, and I have to show them I can, and then they need to think about it. And I need to hope someone else loses eligibility or gets hurt.” He did another handstand, but this time, faced away from Galadriel.

If it was meant as a hint, she missed it. Or maybe she did not care. “Do you just practice here now, or do you go somewhere else sometimes?”

Fingon lowered his legs back to the ground and stood up on his feet. “Why the sudden interest?” His hands were on his hips.

“Can a cousin not simply be curious?”

“Look, I have a little sister. I know how this works.” Fingon rubbed his left wrist for a moment before he went to a table that contained a pitcher of water and two glasses. 

There had been an expectation by his mother that Maedhros was going to visit, but Fingon had yet to explain that was unlikely. In the two months that Fingon spent recovering and in therapy for his injuries, Maedhros had neglected to visit. In fact, besides his parents and siblings, only Finrod had taken time to regularly sit at the bedside and chat or play games with him. When he arrived home again, Maedhros came to call when no one else was at home. After two months of near solitude, and a lot of time to think, Fingon said nothing and shut the door in Maedhros’ face. He brooded and paced for two minutes, and upon opening the door again, found that Maedhros had left. 

It was something Fingon would deal with later. At the moment, training was his most important goal. He poured water into the second glass anyhow, and offered it to Galadriel. “I am one of the least interesting people to have a conversation with,” he admitted. “So just tell me why you are still here, because small talk bothers me.”

Galadriel accepted the glass of water. “When I come over, Íri and I usually sit in the trophy room.”

“My father’s study?” Fingon guessed.

“Maybe. The room with your medals and statues, and the cups Turukáno has won from fencing, and Írissë ribbons for horsewomanship.” Galadriel frowned when Fingon snorted. “What?”

“I doubted anyone could be more of a feminist than Íri, and that is my father’s study that you are talking about. He is very proud of all that the three of us have accomplished.”

“I think everyone should be a feminist,” countered Galadriel. 

“Fine, but honestly, the awards even say horsemanship on them,” he explained. 

“Well, I think it needs to be equal,” Galadriel said.

Fingon finished his glass and set it back down. “Right, but, they are not. Women are allowed to ride side-saddle to compete, and they do not joust.”

“But they race the same path,” argued Galadriel.

“Ladies only race it three times. Men go around it five.”

“It should be equal.”

“Then it should be horsepersonship and women should joust and men should ride side saddle if they prefer. But you know why not? Because the first time someone’s daughter gets hurt, everyone will be demanding it gets changed back.”

“I would not complain.”

“I believe that – but you do not compete in the sport! Bring it up to Írissë; see what she thinks of your plan.”

Galadriel grew silent.

“You already did,” guessed Fingon

Galadriel sipped her water.

“She said it was silly,” he furthered.

Galadriel stared straight at Fingon. “Your sister is young. In time, she will learn that in order to gain equal respect, we must insist upon equal treatment.”

Fingon laughed. “My sister is older than you.”

“I have twice as many brothers as she does. I matured quickly.”

“Ha! So men are important!” Fingon announced triumphantly. 

“What? No… what did I… dammit!”

Fingon poured a little more water for himself. “You wish you were a boy sometimes, I think.”

“All the time,” admitted Galadriel.

“Fair enough. Sometimes, I wish I was a girl.” Fingon drank the water and set the glass down again. “So you go into the study and you sit and look at the awards, and then what?”

“I think how wonderful it could be if I should have my own.”

“I see. And how would you compete?”

“Well, I believe it is too late for me to take up anything like you have,” she assumed.

Fingon nodded. “You have to start very early for gymnastics or wrestling or any of that, at least for the competitions where you would win trophies or medals, and certainly if you want a team to sponsor you.”

“I thought about horses, but I have Ambaráto’s old nag, and I could never race her, not against those beautiful horses like the ones Írissë and Russandol have,” Galadriel said wistfully. “Besides, between you and me, I think horseracing is a bit deceptive. It seems to be more about the athleticism of the horse than it is about the rider.”

“What about a team sport?” Fingon suggested.

“I tried a few of those, but none of them worked out. It takes too long to move up the ranks, and I hardly play, and they put me on the beginner teams every time!”

Fingon tried not to smirk. “Imagine that.”

“I know – and I have so much to offer, especially as it pertains to leadership skills. I was hoping you might have an idea for me,” she said hopefully.

“What about running? They have those races around the walls of Tirion every other year, and there must be some marathons closer to home.”

Galadriel shook her head. “Far too long –and boring. Who wants to run around a city for half the day?”

“What about sprinting?” said Fingon. “They have foot races, you know – some of them on a track, or through a forest path, and at times with hurdles.” He waved his hand suddenly. “Oh, but the hurdles are just for boys,” he remembered.

“Tell me more of these races. Why only boys?” prodded Galadriel.

Fingon shrugged. “Only boys compete. I suppose because a girl might catch her skirts in the bar.”

“Are there official rules against it?”

“None that I know of. We could ask Tyelkormo – he competes sometimes.”

“Does he?”

Now it was known to them both that there was little love for their fair cousin from either of them, and the idea took seed in both of their minds simultaneously.

“If you competed in the hurdles, I do believe you would need to register in the league with the boys. I doubt they could tell you no – the paths are different. Those are the ones run in the forest on a straight track or a marked winding path, but they all have start and finish lines. Girls run a circuit on an oval track covered in sand, and they usually wear shoes. Boys are always barefoot. It would be a different competition completely.”

“And you could train me?”

Fingon bit his lip and looked Galadrield over. “Well… I do not—“

“So help me, if you tell me you cannot because I am a girl, I will break your other leg.”

“No, it has nothing to do with that. It is simply that I am a professional.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“I started tumbling when I was four. I started training when I was six. I had my first sponsor at seven. This is not a hobby; this is my career. My body is flawless, and right now, I could probably beat you at a race of any distance, even coming off of an injury. I am still in training, which means you would need to train alongside me, and I doubt you could keep up.”

Galadriel narrowed her eyes and put the glass of water she was holding down beside Fingon’s empty one. “Try me,” she challenged.

“Alright. If you can keep up with me, you can train with me. You can jog around the property when I go outside to use the bars that Turukáno is building for me in the back, and you can run around inside the gym on the nights I train there. On the days I do conditioning, you can follow me in doing calisthenics here inside the house.” He stood up and stretched. “I would suggest you stretch a little first.”

“Right now?” questioned Galadriel.

Fingon shrugged. “You want to do this or not?”

“Should I see if there is something in Írissë’s room I can change into?”

“I was almost done for now. Just gather up your skirts and knot your dress up at your thigh to keep it out of the way. We are just going to do one exercise – if you can do it, you prove to me you can do the racing stuff.”

“And beat Tyelkormo.” 

Fingon smiled. “All in good time. Limber up. I will be right back.” He took the empty pitcher with him, and returned with it filled again. “Ready?” he asked.

Galadriel had her skirts hiked up as Fingon had suggested and was sitting on the floor stretching when he entered. “Ready,” she said firmly after she stood up.

“Good. I like confidence.” Fingon ran a hand over his already slick hair before he stretched for a moment as well. 

“What are we doing?” Galadriel impatiently asked.

“Watch me.” He aligned his feet and bent at the knee. “You are going to keep on the balls of your feet, off your heels. Stay low, knees bent, like this. Quick, quick, back and forth. And breathe.” He performed the exercise for a few moments to show her how. “Stay loose, arms up for balance. Keep up with my pace, but stay consistent. Ready?”

Galadriel put her arms up to mirror Fingon. “Ready.”

The first few seconds were easy – Galadrield had no difficulty until Fingon picked up speed, and maintained it. Breathing became more audible for each of them. “Doing alright?” he asked. She barely nodded, her concentration on him. “Good. Halfway -- done. Just -- fifty more. Keep -- pushing yourself.” He stopped talking until they made it through the reps, but he did not yet tell her to stop nor did he yield himself. “Show me -- what you can -- do.”

Galadriel continued on with determination. When Fingon, having practiced most of the day, slowed down, she sped up. When he stopped and settled into a crouch with his hands on his hips, breathing deeply, she continued. “Alright, enough, enough,” he advised. “No need to get cramps. You win.”

She dropped down into a similar pose and grinned as she panted, “And you will train me?”

Fingon reached out and took hold of his cousin’s hand. “Sunrise, noon, sunset. Be here every other day; eat light before you come. I will make up a more formal schedule soon. Írissë will enjoy having you here so often. I will enjoy seeing you best Tyelkormo this fall.”

Galadriel gripped Fingon’s hand and shook it. “Deal.”


End file.
